


stick that in your pipe

by ToSeeStars



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Except this time the alien is into the human, M/M, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 06:54:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20238586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToSeeStars/pseuds/ToSeeStars
Summary: DD pays a very friendly visit to his favorite prisoner.





	stick that in your pipe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oncewewerezombies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncewewerezombies/gifts).

> Prompt:  
Two very dashing, well dressed men. And Droog has a thing for both soft-shells and strength. It's hard not to swoon too hard from the sheer aura of a man like Dad Egbert, even before he punches out a wall.
> 
> Droog's not a man to get all twitterpated but he really just can't help himself.
> 
> Notes:  
Hi there. I'm a huge fan of your work, and I hope you're content with mine!

You, that is, the Draconian Dignitary, adjust the knot of your new tie, fiddling with the fabric more than strictly necessary as you lean against the elevator wall. The jitter of the machinery does nothing to help calm your nerves- or it wouldn't, if you had anything to be nervous about. 

The man you’re mere moments from arriving to is, without question, the finest example of his species that you have had the pleasure of seeing, although that number is fairly small to begin with, so perhaps a better compliment should come to mind. Hopefully before the window for one comes and goes.

Of course, you yourself ain't anything to sneeze at as far as looks go, and you’re pretty sure any guy with eyes can see that pretty clearly, so you’ve got nothing to worry about far as equal footing. You’re certain of it. 

The door slides open, and there he is. The prisoner- you haven't gotten his name, and at this point, you’re not planning to ask- rests on the lounge, his pipe in hand. His skin is dark, smooth, yet completely unlike your shell. It's more of a mellow, pleasant brown than your stark black, and his features are sharp and professional without compromising any of his strange warmth. It should stand to reason that anything without an exoskeleton shouldn't be nearly as robust as a lower pawn, and yet, each time you lay eyes on him, you first can't help but appreciate the fine work that clearly went into such a beautiful set of formalwear, and then the same regarding what a set of biceps.

It would be so much easier to speak if the man didn't smile at you every time he returned like he's a genuine wonder rather than a warden.

How are you, the prisoner asks. You let him know you're doing just fine. Good, he says, good. 

You deposit a small container of what you believe to be a decent substitute for human shaving cream on the counter, explaining this. You say you're not so sure that giving a blade to an inmate is the most sane of ideas, though. He gives this soft little chuckle and shakes his head. Says you could do it for him if you wanted. He's joking, you can tell, but the mental image- the intimacy of holding a blade so closely to fragile skin- sets your stomach flipping and a fire ablaze underneath your faceplate.

Sure, why not, you say. He laughs good-naturedly and tells you he'd have to teach you first. Maybe you can just watch if you don't trust him enough.

Never have you been more grateful for your obsidian plating. It's awful frustrating the way he affects you- it's not as if you ain't seen plenty of lovers before, but something about this man makes you think that perhaps that isn't quite the right name for what they were to you. 

It's a date, you say. He smiles at you, tells you he'd take you somewhere better than the bathroom if he could. You say with that kind of talk it's almost like he's trying to get you to fill out absence forms. He would never, he says. You say yeah, sure.

He tips his hat back and compliments your choice of tie clip. Very businesslike, he says. You thank him, and he says you should smile more.

You touch your face.

When the fuck did that get there.

He rests his hand over yours and gives you a slightly amused, mostly sympathetic look. Asks what made you stop. You don't know what to say, and you hate that. He withdraws his hand and you miss it immediately, the strange softness of his skin.

He seems...disappointed?

You take his hand back in yours and thread your fingers through, careful not to keep your claws out where you rest your fingertips. The dismay disappears in an instant, and he hums, pleased. (What a beautiful sound.)

You ask, quieter than you intend to, if there's anything else you can get for him. He indicates nothing material, but that he could use some company. You offer your own- you don't have much else you need to have done tonight.  Besides yourself.

You settle carefully down on the lounge beside him, and you make a quiet, choked noise as he wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you closer. You can taste the cologne he wears- he hasn't had a chance to refresh it recently, you believe, but sage and tobacco both cling to his outfit and for a second you forget to keep breathing.

His fingertips brush over the buttons of your jacket and you disguise the beginnings of a purr just barely as a contemplative hum. A gentleman, you realize, is waiting for your consent. He's not pushed any further and he likely won't until you give him a solid yes.

He has decorum in even this kind of act. You think your pumper might break one of your ribs at this rate.

He looks beautiful. He thanks you for the compliment, and you mentally smack yourself for managing to whisper it aloud. He smiles at you again, and you feel as if you might burst. You have to look away- and when you do, you can't decide whether you regret it or not. It's rude to stare, after all. He is immaculate, from hat to wingtip, and you must not have realized how wide your eyes are, because he chuckles and says you must like what you see if you've got the moon and stars in your lookers.

You blurt you always heard you weren't supposed to stare directly at the sun.

Personally, you thought that was a horrendous play of words by any standard, but he seems absolutely thrilled by it, grabbing your hands in his and planting them on his chest. You can't help the way your fingertips flex against the fabric- it almost drives you mad that you weren't made to recognize what it is immediately. It's smooth but not so much your hands would slide right off. You should not be doing this.

He gives you a reassuring glance. You stare for a moment before concluding it no longer matters what you should and shouldn't do.

You barely mouth the words 'may I?', but he nods anyway, and you shift your weight so that you can take one of his hands carefully in yours. You press your lips gently to the back of his hand- like you're greeting nobility, instead of your captive- and then do the same to each of the buttons on his cuffs. You let go, and he reaches out to run his clear nails over the ridges of your neck, pressing lightly into your back to encourage you closer. 

Your claws relax so you can run your fingers gently along his jacket's lapels, catching on the notches and on the tiny buttonhole where you think something might have been supposed to go, once. Your fingertips follow the edges of his jacket until you find the top button, and you press a small kiss to it before you undo it to nudge the jacket aside.

As he shifts and twists to remove it, you can see the tendons in his arms through his button-down, the swell of his working muscles. Plating only ever shows so much; at this point you can't tell what you find more hypnotic. The beautiful tailor work he's dressed in, or the man himself. You take a breath in and pay no mind to your sheath loosening beneath your slacks. Is this all it takes to get to you? Imagine what the papers would say-

He asks if you're alright. More than, you reply without missing a beat. You feel your face heat up a bit, but as you attempt to return to what you were doing, he cups your face with a strength you still find yourself surprised by and pulls you into a proper kiss.

You part your mouth after a second. His teeth are blunt, and he's so soft you feel you should mind your fangs, but it doesn't seem to be your choice- he presses against the back of your head and you have to brace yourself more firmly against him just to keep some control. You might be tempted to give that up entirely, at this rate. You taste familiar smoke on his breath and mint and that little detail just might be the most difficult obstacle in your way to keep yourself from making like proper ice and melting.

A moment longer, and sharp copper joins as he nicks his lip against the points of your teeth. He draws back, and takes a breath as he runs his tongue over the wound- it's the only thing about him which seems to be at all disheveled yet, despite the force with which he handled you. He rolls his shoulders and gestures for you to go on.

You press two kisses along his jaw, trailing down to the side of his neck before drawing back and brushing your claws down the dip of his waistcoat. Your claws catch on the buttons, and you hold a breath as you undo each one by one, your palms sliding over his chest as you push the apparel off of his shoulders. You slide his tie between your claws, but you let it drop a bit to the side- not yet. Setting your hands on either side of him, you press a string of kisses down from his collar and the knot of his tie to just before his slacks. You reach to undo the top button, but he pauses you, taking your jaw in a hand and tilting it so he can meet your eyes.

He nudges the brim of his hat up a bit and you notice, for the first time, that his are ringed with a beautiful grey. Human eyes are so unlike yours- so detailed and so unique, like all the rest of them. They're crinkling up at the edges with the way he looks at you, and your heart and mind both demand you look away and back to the task at hand lest you get lost. You pull each button free and he pushes the shirt off, stretching. Your hands rest at the hem of his undershirt, and you run your thumbs over it once before pushing it up.

His skin is so soft, you're not entirely sure you'll be able to keep your hands off of it at all. Carapaces aren't covered entirely in hard shell, but the flexible segments in places like your neck and waist are still comprised of something rougher, ridged every couple inches. It's nothing like the smoothness and fuzz of the prisoner's.

(You really should have asked his name.)

He grips your hips and pulls you so you're sitting on his, and he says you seem like you're enjoying yourself. You tell him you won't deny it- your voice spikes in the middle as he rolls his hips against you, and you clear your throat. Something in his eyes sparks with amusement, perhaps surprise, and you find yourself grateful that yours don’t betray where you’re looking as easily as his do. This would be much more difficult.

He takes to pushing each of your buttons through each of their loops, not so reverently as you had but with a care to it that you have to respect him for. He sets each of your covers, as well as your hat, over the back of the couch, and you glance over them for perhaps a moment too long. (You have to resist the urge to fold them.)

He nudges your chin back to face him, and his fingers splay over the bottom edge of your chestplate, taking a second to breathe with you. He’s *warm,* you note, warmer than you, and you wonder if that’s just how humans are or if you’ve managed to impress him. He seems content for a few seconds more, and then he wonders politely if this practice is how all captives of Derse are treated.

You press your mouth into a thinned line and contemplate your response for a moment. Hm, sometimes. Not usually like this, though, you admit.

He presses his lips against the edge of your jaw and runs his hands down to your hips, quietly asking what you’d like to proceed with. You hesitate- you don’t want to _ask_ outright, that’s some kind of humiliating. You’d think it’d be pretty obvious, you imply to him.

The corners of his lips quirk up a bit. He’s not sure of the differences in rituals between Dersites and humans, but he’s happy to learn, he explains. You hesitate, then place a hand on the button of your slacks. He reaches out and places his hand over yours, meaning to guide you through the motion of undoing them- you allow him, and you push them down and off of you. It becomes quickly evident that a bulge has been straining against your briefs for what has quite likely been a while- there's a small wet mark underneath that you are most certainly not flustered about in the least.

He reaches out to press his palm to the bulge in question, running his fingertips over that little bit of wet cloth. You inhale through your teeth, extending it so it's more of a breath than a gasp, and exhale slowly. He hums, appraising you, and then runs a finger beneath the waistband of your undergarment, playfully tugging down to expose the curvature of your hip. You reach over to undo his slacks in turn, and once you do, he lifts you up as if you weigh about as much as one of his razors. You swallow. He sets you down beside him, shifting so that he might remove his own slacks and then, after a moment, his boxers as well.

A prominent, half-hard member is shown before you as he waits for your reaction, and for once, it’s pretty clear on your face- you are surprised, but not apprehensive. It’s strange, different, it certainly isn’t shaped like yours- but you think you might very much like it in you. He raises a brow, making a gesture for you to follow suit.

You push your briefs off to reveal yours- sheath fully open by now, your cock is segmented and tapers off at the end, and just beneath it rests a damp slit. His brows raise, but nothing else betrays his reaction. He quietly inquires if you’d have any lubricant, and you blink in realization before gesturing to the back pocket of your slacks. Retrieving the small bottle, he dispenses some into his hand and passes it to you to do the same. There’s quiet for a moment as you both warm it in your fingers, then he reaches over and delicately wraps his fingers around the shaft, exploring each segment in turn. His touch is enough to make you squirm, hips shifting as you force your breath to keep steady. He watches you in earnest as he continues, eventually drawing you into another kiss. You return it, relaxing your claws so that you might get a better feeling for his equipment yourself.

He jumps a bit, surprising you slightly, but he smiles into the kiss you share. He explores your cock for a minute or so more before his fingers dip down to the slit waiting for equal attention. His index and middle digits slide slowly along the opening, and dip just slightly between folds. You cannot choke down a pleased chirp, undeniably inhuman and in your opinion rather undignified. He breaks the kiss to look at you curiously, perhaps confused by the meaning of it- though his fingers don't seem to think it was a bad one, as they continue rubbing up and down bit by bit. You do it again, and stifle yourself with your free hand. 

He sinks his middle finger in as far as it will go, slow and deliberate, kissing your neck. You gasp and have to brace yourself against him, biting down on your lip hard enough to bleed. Your exploration of his member changes pace, quickening in the hope you might learn what's equivalent to what he's doing to you.

He lets out his own sound, at last, a soft grunt of approval at the new pace. He adds an additional finger as far as it will go to join the first, and keeps them still, allowing you just a moment to adjust- but just a moment, no more, before he resumes moving them in and out. You claw at his chest without thinking, composure lost for a second as you try to get some kind of release or equivalency. He seems to react reflexively by closing his teeth down on your neck, and- well, you can’t deny that that would get a pretty moan out of you. He makes a thoughtful sound and repeats it before you can recover, winning another only somewhat more restrained sound and a quiet, flustered whine as you roll your hips.

He presses a kiss to the bite mark, asking against your neck if he may take you.  _ Please, _ you stumble to get out, your face burning.

In an instant he’s got you properly laying on your back on that couch, looming over you, and lining his member up nicely where it should go. He presses a series of soft kisses to your neck and shoulder as he slips in gradually. You start purring. You stop purring for several seconds, and then the dam breaks again. He feels  _ good.  _ He chuckles slightly, pulling out and then pressing back in again, slow as molasses. You push to prop yourself up on your elbows, reining your composure more or less back under control. He slides a hand over your side, admiring, and you lift slightly into the contact, running your claws down his back. 

You roll your hips to match him as he starts to increase his speed, and his hand slides down to hold you steady in time with him. He bites down again, and you exhale, reaching out to run your claws over his head, finally knocking off that hat. He begins to pant with effort, and you start to come apart, in pieces with each entry marking a new crack in your concentration. Your breath begins to catch and quicken, and your tracing over the muscles of his back turns into light scratching as you close your eyes and press your mouth shut. His hand slides down to play with the end of your member, and you lose it, nearly bucking as your voice betrays you.

It looks like he got what he was looking for. He doesn’t hesitate to slide his fingers down further, then pull them back up, over and over again until he has a rhythm between the beat of his hips and the movement of his hand. You will not be able to take this sustained for long. You pant, throwing your head back, trying to push more and more against him.  _ Please, _ you say again.

For a moment, you’re almost uncertain he heard you, nothing changes- and then it  _ does _ . He gives your length a firm squeeze, and a handful of his absolute deepest thrusts yet, groaning freely with every one.

You pant for a while, almost in sync with him, before he pushes up off of you and sits up. You roll- straight off of the couch. Yeah, you're good down here on the cool tile floor. He laughs, but for some reason it doesn't bother you- it's some manner of comfort instead. Amiable. You're not sure how long the two of you spend in companionable silence just like that, cooling off, but he eventually asks if you'd still like to stay for a bit.

You have paperwork you were assigned to, you should have had it finished by tonight....

So of course, you decide to get your slacks back on and stay around a while longer, laid against him on the penthouse cell's bed. You'll have to get around to asking his name, sometime- you think you would like to get used to this, if only for a while.


End file.
